


Smoky Memories

by EdgarAllanCat



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drinking, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 09:16:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11272497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllanCat/pseuds/EdgarAllanCat
Summary: Quentin Coldwater is more alone than he has ever been in his life. After finding  a pack of Eliot's cigarettes on the floor of the cottage he decides to  recreate the memories as best he can.





	Smoky Memories

For the first few days Quentin had sealed off Eliot’s room. The door remained shut and no one was allowed inside. Sometimes, Quentin would find himself staring at the door. He could imagine opening it and finding Eliot sprawled out on the bed.  If he opened the door then it would ruin the illusion that Eliot was still in there, the last bit of magic that Quentin was holding onto would shatter. Logically, he knew that Eliot was still in Fillory, he knew that there was no reason to act this protective over a bedroom, but Quentin couldn’t help it.

                This was the most alone he had ever felt. Julia had gone back to law school, Eliot and Margo were in another world, and Alice wasn’t speaking to him. He didn’t have anything except the illusion that behind the door Eliot was sprawled out on the bed. That he could live with.  

                Then came the day that the fantasy (like all of Quentin’s fantasies) shattered. Quentin had stood before the door a full five minutes before reaching down, the knob cold against his fingers. He was a bit surprised at how easily it opened, he expected the door to stick or for the hinges to squeak. Instead the door swung open, revealing Eliot’s room to be just as he had left it.

                As meticulous as Eliot was about his looks that didn’t carry over into general cleanliness. His room was an explosion of clothing and long forgotten text books. The bed was unmade with the sheet kicked to the bottom and hanging halfway into the floor.  The duvet was in a pile at the centre of the bed and Quentin could picture Eliot curled up beneath it, nursing a hangover and hiding from the sunlight the filtered in through the curtains. There was a flask on the side table within arm’s reach of the blanket pile.

                Of course, Eliot wasn’t under the blanket. Nothing was. Quentin climbed onto the bed with his shoes on and buried his face in the pillow. It smelled like leather and whisky with the faintest whispers of Margo’s perfume. It smelled like Eliot. Quentin breathed in deeply as though getting high off the scent, letting it fill his brain and his belly and leave him dizzy. His fingers gripped the pillow, holding it tight like it was Eliot, like he could bring Eliot back to him and hold him one last time.

                How long had it been in Fillory? A month had passed on earth, but time was different in the other world. Quentin could have done the math, figured out exactly how long it had been, but he didn’t feel like it. His brain was short circuiting and he didn’t particularly want to do anything except lay in this bed, close his eyes, and pretend. If he tried hard enough he could remember Eliot’s arms around him, holding him tight during the night. The memories wrapped themselves around Quentin, leaving him more depressed than when he first curled up.

                It was hours that he lay there, hovering just above sleep. No one came looking for him, there was no one left to look for him. There had been times in his life when he had felt alone, cut off from the world he knew. Now, he really was. There was no magic, he didn’t have much in the way of friends remaining, and he couldn’t think of a reason to keep going.  Maybe if he lay in the bed long enough he would fall asleep and never wake up. At this point, that would be fine with him.

                Quentin reached out from under a blanket, taking the flask in his hands and drinking from it like Juliet trying to get the last of Romeo’s poison. There was only a drop of bourbon remaining and Quentin felt the worst pang in his stomach. Eliot’s flask that never emptied was, at last, empty. It hadn’t even occurred to Quentin that the magical flask would run dry, it was just a constant that it was full. Choking back a sob, Quentin put the flask back down and looked for something else to remind him of Eliot. Anything else.

                A crushed pack of ultra-lights sat on the floor like a beacon. They had been stepped on at least once and Quentin realised he probably stepped on them on his way to the bed.  Picking them up he realised there wasn’t a lighter. Of course there wasn’t. Eliot had never needed a lighter. It was always magic that lit his cigarettes. It was magic that did everything.

                Using Eliot’s blanket as a shawl Quentin made his way downstairs. Surely somewhere in the cottage there was a lighter. The cottage was deserted and quiet. Usually in the commons there wold be music playing or people talking. Now, Quentin felt like the only person alive. It was like an apocalypse movie, he thought as he searched for supplies. The drawers were filled with busted cell phones, useless magical texts, and airplane bottles of liquor. Coins and cards were hidden in the couch cushions, and the kitchen was just full of dishes. There wasn’t a lighter to be found. Eventually, Quentin used the stove to light one of the cigarettes. It burned unevenly from the awkward angle it was lit at.

                Quentin brought the cigarette to his lips, trying to smoke like Eliot had. He breathed in deeply and ended up hovering over the sink coughing and spitting out the smoke from his lungs. He had no idea how Eliot managed to look so calm and casual when he smoked. It burned his throat and  made his lips tingle slightly. Gasping for breath Quentin looked at the still smoking cigarette and steeled himself. Despite the pain he felt better. The taste reminded him of Eliot. The smell  of the smoke further filled his brain, bringing up memories of Eliot sitting comfortably in the window sill with a cigarette dangling from his fingers.

                Taking another drag Quentin found himself coughing less. He moved from the kitchen to the  bar, wisps of smoke traveling behind him. Eliot was the one who always made the drinks, Quentin had no idea what to do behind the bar. But, the wards were down and he could stand there, just like Eliot had, his hands gently fluttering over the glasses. He got some ice and poured himself a glass of whisky because that was the only thing he knew how to make.

                It tasted bitter and his stomach initially rebelled against Quentin’s latest self-destructive choices.  He ignored it, settling down in a chair, trying to smoke without coughing and drink without gagging. The smell, the taste, everything about this was enough to make him believe that Eliot was still there. Rather than going back to the kitchen he ended up lighting a second cigarette off the first, which almost felt like magic. The second cigarette was easier, or maybe it was just that he was dizzy and didn’t care. Quentin closed his eyes, letting himself sink further down.

 


End file.
